Divide and Devour
by Histoire
Summary: What happens to Hermione when Fenrir Greyback takes her from Malfoy Manor before the rescue? Picks up at "Malfoy Manor" chapter and deviates from there. Rating subject to change. R&R!
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note:_ So, this first chapter – and the second as well – will be borrowing very heavily from the chapter "Malfoy Manor" from _Deathly Hallows. _There are direct quotations all over the place in the first two chapters. If you recognize it, chances are it didn't originate with me. Very obviously I do not own anything that J.K. Rowling has written, but am borrowing it for the express purpose of doing potentially cruel and unusual things to her characters. I hope she'll forgive me.

Divide and Devour

Chapter I

Snatchers

"…and lastly, your pretty little friend…" he said, in a voice that sounded like a body being dragged across dry gravel. The relish in his voice made Harry's flesh crawl.

Fenrir Greyback was poised on the balls of his feet, ready for swift action. The girl before him was trembling even as she tried to stand up straight and project an air of confidence. He eyed her appreciatively. Her brown hair swirled about her face and shoulders in untamed waves and curls. Pale skin – _very soft, too, _he thought – and from what he could tell from having grabbed her and thrown her to the ground only moments before, a delicious, curvy figure.

"Easy, Greyback," said Scabior over the jeering of the others.

"Oh, I'm not going to bite just yet. We'll see if she's a bit quicker at remembering her name than Barny. Who are you, girly?" he rasped.

"Penelope Clearwater," said Hermione. She sounded terrified, but convincing. She tried to look the imposing werewolf in the eye, earning her a snarl as he curled his lip at her to display cruelly pointed canine teeth. She dropped her eyes to her own twisting hands, bereft of wand, and then to her toes. Her panic-fogged brain offered up one bit of advice: _Don't _look an aggressive dog in the eye, said a hazy adult figure in her mind. Hermione fought off hysterical laughter at the thought of Fenrir Greyback, the most infamous werewolf alive, as nothing more than an overgrown dog.

"What's your blood status?" Greyback growled at her.

"Half-blood," said Hermione, still fighting off the rising feeling of hysteria welling in her chest.

"Easy enough to check," said Scabior. "But the 'ole lot of 'em look like they could still be 'ogwarts age –"

Ron spoke up through his mouthful of blood – Hermione glanced over at him as it continued to stream from his nose – and told the Snatchers that they had left Hogwarts.

"Left, 'ave you ginger?' said Scabior. "And you decided to go camping? And you thought, just for a laugh, you'd use the Dark Lord's name?"

"Nod a laugh," said Ron. "Aggiden."

"Accident?" There was more jeering laughter. Greyback barked a mirthless laugh filled with the sound of bones snapping, sending a shiver of revulsion up Hermione's spine. She tried not to jump when the werewolf questioned Ron about the Order. _Oh Merlin, don't let them find out… please…! _she thought frantically.

One of the nameless Snatchers twined his dirty fingers into Harry's hair and dragged him to a small group of prisoners as Greyback rounded on Hermione, a predatory glint in his steely eyes. He grabbed her about the waist, pulling her close against his chest, and heaved her over to the huddled group, leaving the man who had dragged and bound Harry to bind her as well. As the Snatcher left them to re-join his fellows Hermione felt the bubbling hysteria in her chest lessen, but the stifling sense of thwarted panic remained and her hear beat erratically like a small bird beating its wings against its cage. They could neither fight nor flee at this point, and Hermione didn't have any idea how they were going to get away.

She was snapped out of her thoughts when she heard the man called Scabior say her name. Her _real _name. Suddenly Fenrir Greyback's whiskered, dirty face was in front of her own; she could feel his hot breath and smell the tang of blood on it. She shot a fearful glance at him without raising her head, and saw the congealed blood between his pointed teeth.

"You know what, little girly? This picture looks a hell of a lot like you." He was perfectly still, a wolf regarding his prey.

"It isn't! It isn't me!" She said, her voice coming out in a squeak of abject terror.

"…_known to be traveling with Harry Potter,_" repeated Greyback quietly.

Hermione trembled, silently cursing herself for being the one to give away Harry's identity when he had had the Snatchers believing his flimsy cover story. There was a frenzied search - "I found glasses!" yelped one of the Snatchers. She glanced quickly between Harry, glasses now sitting askew on his swollen face, and the huddled group of Snatchers discussing their fate.

"Will you summon 'im? _'ere?_" gasped a terrified-sounding Scabior.

"No," snarled Greyback. "I haven't got – they say he's using Malfoy's place as a base. We'll take the boy there."

She focused on the werewolf, realizing that what he didn't have had to be the Dark Mark… _of course You-Know-Who wouldn't allow a half-human to bear his Mark, _she thought acidly, _he's only using Greyback, doesn't think he's a good as a pureblood…. _Her sudden sense of outrage faded as quickly as it had flared when she realized she was offended on behalf of a man who was about to deliver her and her best friends into the hands of the most evil wizard alive, who would most certainly torture and kill them. She never had the chance to notice who grabbed her as they Apparated to Malfoy Manor.

They were half-marched, half-dragged to the entrance where Narcissa Malfoy ushered them inside. The hallway, lined with portraits ranging between ancient and recent, was dimly lit and cold. Narcissa regarded them for a moment with a characteristic look of distaste etched onto her features – Hermione could swear she saw the woman recoil from the musky reek of the werewolf standing at the front of the group. She turned quickly and called over her shoulder for them to follow so that Draco could identify his erstwhile classmates. Greyback's heavy footfalls echoed, while the steps of the other Snatchers were obscured by the sound of the prisoners stumbling and being dragged across the floor. They entered a drawing room with dark purple walls, dazzlingly lit by the most ostentatious chandelier Hermione had ever seen – and that was counting tours of the grand estates her parents had liked to take her on when she was younger.

Keeping her head down, she tried to stop herself trembling. In her peripheral vision she could see Draco, his face wan and drawn. He approached Harry while trying to keep as much distance as possible between himself and Greyback, his eyes flashing resentfully from the werewolf to his father's keen face; he was evidently feeling himself caught between a rock and a hard place and disliking every moment of it.

"I can't – I can't be sure," he stammered.

Hermione felt a flood of relief wash over her at Draco's words, and again as he told his father he didn't know. She tried to keep still, remain unnoticed as Draco deflected his father's questions.

"What about the Mudblood, then?" growled Greyback, hauling them around so the assembled Malfoys could clearly see Hermione.

"Yes – yes," Narcissa said suddenly, "she was in Madam Malkin's with Potter! I saw her picture in the _Prophet_! Look, Draco, isn't that the Granger girl?"

Hermione kept her head down as she felt the bubble of hysteria swell again, bringing bile to her throat. When had Draco Malfoy ever passed up an opportunity to cause her humiliation or pain?

"I…maybe…yeah." he said half-heartedly.

Lucius's eyes filled with excitement as he pointed to Ron, trying to identify him. Draco answered noncommittally without sparing them a glance. _Please, please, _she thought, _just… let us go… don't summon him… oh, please…_. There was an infinitesimal pause; no one seemed to know what to do. The small reprieve they had been granted was shattered just as quickly: Hermione heard Harry's sharp intake of breath as they heard the harsh voice of Bellatrix Lestrange. As she apprehended the situation her face lit with manic glee, she would call Voldemort – they were all about to die –

But instead Lucius and Bellatrix began to bicker, until Bellatrix caught sight of the gleaming sword of Gryffindor being held idly in the filth-encrusted hands of one of the Snatchers. Stunning spells flew, and all of the Snatchers save the werewolf fell where they had been standing. Greyback landed hard on his knees, immobile and savagely angry. Bellatrix advanced on him, her chest heaving, to question him about the sword. Her lip curled in revulsion as she stared down her nose at the werewolf, but she released him from the spell that had been holding him. Hermione watched the witch out of the corner of her eye as best she could, and she could nearly see the thoughts spinning themselves out as Bellatrix muttered half-formed sentences, and began shouting orders to move the prisoners, sparking another squabble with the Malfoys.

"Do it! You have no idea of the danger we are in!" she shrieked at her sister, her wand shooting sparks and flames. Narcissa glanced from her sister to her husband warily before ordering Greyback to move them to the cellar.

"Wait," said Bellatrix sharply. "All except … except for the Mudblood."

As Hermione was towed by her hair to the middle of the drawing room, she heard the werewolf mocking her companions in an obscenely cheerful tone:

"Reckon she'll let me have a bit of the girl when she's finished with her? I'd say I'll get a bite or two, wouldn't you, ginger?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note_: I would like it noted for the record that I am in no way envisioning the movie version of Fenrir in this fic. Just… find yourself a vaguely attractive Fenrir image (okay, even the movie version; to each their own!) and go with that, please, thank you, and you're welcome. Many heartfelt thanks go out to Dark Goddess 1487, Cassia4u, cosmoGirl666, iamleelee, A Vampire Stole My Heart, and Jamberine. I'm glad to know you are enjoying the story so far!

Divide and Devour

Chapter II

Cellar Door

Hermione stood frozen in the middle of the drawing room under the shimmering lights reflected from the crystal chandelier, faced by Bellatrix Lestrange and probable death. She was half-crouched, having been dragged by her hair, and couldn't seem to find the strength to straighten herself even though she wanted to. _I don't want to die, _she thought, _not like this, not now...! _Slowly, she raised her head and straightened her shoulders, and looked at Bellatrix in time to see the older witch raise her wand:

"Crucio!"

Hermione screamed, her legs buckling underneath her. Bellatrix lifted the curse and paused, watching the young woman shaking on the floor. Faint shouts could be heard from the cellar.

"Put a silencing charm on the cellar door, Narcissa! I have no desire to hear the blood traitors wail. I have _work _to do."

The blonde woman sniffed haughtily but left the room to do as she was bidden, shying away from the man who was entering. Through the tears beading on her eyelashes Hermione noticed Fenrir Greyback make his re-entrance and slink to a corner, where he crouched in the shadows and stayed still, eyes narrowed, watching.

Her attention was ripped away from the crouching werewolf by the ruthless tones of Bellatrix addressing her.

"Listen well, Mudblood. That was just a taste, just the _tiniest sample_, of the pain I can cause you. You will answer my questions unless you wish for that again, and more. Do you understand?"

Hermione nodded fractionally.

"Good. Now, where did you get this sword?"

"We –" she choked and weakly pushed herself into a less sprawling position before answering. "We found it. In a forest."

"_Crucio,_" whispered Bellatrix, her voice thick with hatred.

Hermione bit down on her lip, bloodying herself as she screamed again at the sensation of white-hot knives, of her blood boiling and her bones turning to ice – then it stopped.

"I'm going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? _Where?_"

"We found it – we found it – PLEASE!" Hermione screamed, splattering droplets of her blood onto the carpet around her. Slowly she pulled herself to her feet, every muscle in her body trembling with the exertion. _I will _not _lie here at her feet! _she thought with a fierce burst of Gryffindor courage.

"You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, _tell the truth!_"

Hermione cried out again as Bellatrix lunged forward, dragging her small silver knife across Hermione's cheek, grinning with sadistic pleasure as the blood blossomed from the girl's pale skin. Fenrir let out an inaudible growl of dissatisfaction. _The girl _is _telling the truth, _he thought. _It's in her eyes. Not that it matters. _

"What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"

"We haven't – we didn't – we don't know anything about your vault!" Hermione sobbed. "I swear, we found it – fou –"

Bellatrix swiped at her once more with the knife, slicing the side of her neck from a point underneath her ear forward, dragging the blade across her cheek again to meet with the first cut, the two wounds now forming a gaping, bloodied cross. Hermione screamed again and stumbled backwards, sprawling onto the carpet. She knew she wouldn't be able to get up this time; it had taken all of her will to remain standing for those few minutes.

"How did you get into my vault? Did that dirty little Goblin in the cellar help you?"

"We only met him tonight," Hermione sobbed. "We've never been inside your vault…It isn't the real sword! It's a copy, just a copy!"

"A copy? Oh, a likely story!"

Hermione closed her eyes and rested her head on the floor as her blood seeped into the plush carpet. She heard Lucius Malfoy send Draco to the cellar. Her desperate lie was about to be uncovered, and she was sure Bellatrix would kill her.

In the corner, Fenrir continued to watch and wait. He was interested in the fate of the girl inasmuch as he wanted something left to play with when Bellatrix was finished. He had not expected to be… impressed. She didn't look _tough_, the little girly, but she had forced herself back to her feet after being Cruciated by the mad bitch twice. He had never been on the receiving end of an Unforgiveable Curse from Lestrange, but he knew her power well enough to understand that what the girl had done was no easy feat in any sense. His nostrils flared as the scent of the fresh blood wafted toward him, and he licked his lips.

"Are you almost done there, or are you going to break my new toy?" he growled.

"Crucio!" cried Bellatrix as she eyed him with contempt.

Hermione's scream died to a small, keening whimper before Bellatrix ceased.

"Give me one good reason that I should not kill her outright, mongrel," spat Bellatrix.

If he had been about to answer her, Bellatrix never noticed – the Goblin was dragged into the room and unceremoniously deposited at her feet next to the barely-conscious girl. The small, wizened creature pronounced the sword a fake; Bellatrix relaxed the white-knuckled grip she had had on her wand. Slashing a deep cut into the Goblin's face, she triumphantly prepared to summon Voldemort. She pressed her skeletal finger to the Dark Mark emblazoned on the waxy skin of her forearm.

"And I think," she said, "we can dispose of the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" cried Ron as he burst into the drawing room, stumbling forward toward Hermione.

In an instant, the werewolf sprang from his hidden place in the corner and crossed the room, snarling, knocking Ron backwards with a brush of his clawed hand. The girl was _his_. He threw out an arm to tear Hermione away from Bellatrix, turned on the spot and Apparated.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: _Well, I feel compelled to apologize as this is moving veeery slowly – but I have a behemoth of a term paper to finish. By Monday. Priorities, priorities. Also I apologize in advance to fans of Scabior – we are sniping at him in this chapter. He did, after all, rather usurp Fenrir's position in the movie. (I'm not sure we could expect anything less of someone who works as a Snatcher, though.)

Divide and Devour

Chapter III

The Witching Hour

Hermione felt a pair of well-muscled arms wrap around her, the uncomfortable compression of side-along Apparition, and then – nothing. Fenrir and his unconscious burden appeared suddenly in the middle of a forest. He paused to sniff the air, glancing around briefly before setting off due north. Shortly a small house came into view between the dark trees. Fenrir passed swiftly through the grounds and into the building, the wards recognizing their caster and admitting him easily. Hermione was no threat, and she too passed easily if insensibly through the wards Fenrir had placed around his small home. He set her down with uncharacteristic gentleness on a large armchair that occupied most of the space next to the large stone fireplace. The werewolf busied himself lighting a fire, took a fleeting look at the young woman in his chair, and went to draw himself a bath.

With the water heated beyond normal human tolerance, Fenrir stepped over the side of the bathtub and sank gratefully until only his nose remained visible. It was dirty, tedious work, being a Snatcher. _And the idiots I have to work with! _Fenrir lamented, not for the first time. He knew that the job he'd been given was beneath his intelligence and capabilities, as were most of the tasks he'd been assigned by the Dark Lord. As a werewolf he enjoyed tracking, loved the thrill of the chase, and the final spasms of his prey as the life drained from them. He didn't particularly enjoy Apparating around the countryside picking up people he couldn't even kill in the company of a man who perpetually dropped his aitches and frequently used double-negatives. _Damn Scabior right to Hell, _he thought ferociously. _He annoys me even when he's nowhere near me. _As for the rest of the Snatchers he worked with, he was grateful they had the decency to remain mostly silent. An irritated growl burst from him and bubbled to the surface of the bathwater.

Hermione gradually regained consciousness, surfacing slowly like a deep-sea diver, but kept her eyes closed, listening. Everything was still. There were no voices, just the crackling of a fire and the faint ticking of a clock from somewhere above her head. She opened her eyes, craning her sore neck to look blearily at her surroundings. There was no one in the little room with her, just a merry little fire and several large pieces of furniture that made the room look even smaller than it was. The fire cast a tiny circle of light and warmth; everything outside of that circle was shrouded in darkness. A glance at the small clock on the mantle told her it was nearly midnight – _the witching hour, _she thought feverishly. She cleared her throat.

"Ha – Harry? Ron?" she called. "Anyone?"

The creak of an un-oiled hinge from somewhere over her shoulder answered her.

"So, you're awake, girly?" queried the disembodied voice of Fenrir Greyback. She whimpered as she heard his feet pad toward her over the bare wooden floorboards.

"Tea," he rasped, setting a cup and saucer down on the small table next to her.

Her eyes flew open and she glanced from the offering of tea to her captor – who was strangely clean. He had evidently had time to have a bath, or groom himself however he so chose: His hair was still tangled but lacking the dull and greasy quality it had had, the blood had been removed from the corners of his mouth, his fingernails – _claws? _she wondered idly – had less dirt and blood caked underneath.

"Th – thank you," she whispered timidly, falling back on her manners in the exceptionally odd situation in which she found herself. _Oh, please let him leave now, _she thought deliberately, hoping against hope he would somehow disappear. (A logical voice in her head told her that even if he _did _disappear it wouldn't help her much. _Shut up, _she thought at the logical voice.)

Instead of departing he stood at her side, observing her. Her hair was tangled and matted with sweat; her face crusted with dried blood and the winding tracks of her tears; the cuts the mad Lestrange woman had made on her face were sticky with congealed, blackened blood. He let out a rumbling sigh. He was going to have to fix her up if he wanted to have any fun with her at all. _Bloody hell._ A faint growl reverberated through his chest as he turned and moved toward the kitchen. He was gong to need a drink. If there was one thing Fenrir Greyback did not particularly enjoy, it was caring for humans in any capacity. To his fellow werewolves he was caring enough – the pack had to stick together, on principle – but healing the little human's wounds wasn't high on his list of things to do.

_Why has he brought me here? Where's 'here' anyway? What happened to Harry and Ron? What's going to happen to me? _Hermione's thoughts raced, her heart starting to pound in her chest as she felt the rise of panic within her. She tried breathing deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth as her mother had once taught her to do to calm herself. She heard his footsteps coming back toward her. No good. She put her head down between her knees. She heard the footsteps stop, and the massive man standing next to her chair let out an unexpected, barking laugh.

"What are you doing?"

Without raising her head she explained briefly that she was trying very hard not to pass out.

"Here," he said, carelessly tipping a fair amount of whiskey into her tea before retreating to the couch across the room. It was only a difference of a yard and a half or so, but when he sat Hermione brought her head back up, feeling marginally less threatened.

"Are you… what are you going to do with me?" she asked softly.

"Drink up, girly," he smirked. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you... _yet._"

She took a cautious sip of her whiskey-laced tea, pulling a face at the flavour, and regarded him over the rim of her teacup. He was nonchalantly picking at his fingernails with a large knife he had picked up from the coffee table in front of him, but Hermione didn't believe for a minute that he wasn't watching her as she observed him. He was tall, she knew that. He had to be over 6 foot, with broad shoulders. Even in the dim light she could see how muscular his arms were – and she had been right. She didn't see the Dark Mark on his forearm. He had a strong, angular jaw, and sharp wolfish features. His face wasn't displeasing… just… _feral,_ she thought. His knotted hair fell past his shoulders by a few inches; it might have been a dark brown once but it was mostly grey shot through with silver streaks now. _Those fingernails are something else, though, _Hermione thought as she watched him clean the remainder of dirt from under them. _Too much._

"Well?" he said, his scratchy voice quieter than she had yet heard it.

"Well, what?" asked Hermione, nonplussed, as she continued to sip her tea. Her head buzzed pleasantly.

"See anything you like?" he flashed a pointy-toothed grin at her.

"You have _got _to be _kidding me!_" she shrieked, her eyes widening and narrowing at him in a split second. "You! You… why you bloody _bastard!_ You've taken me hostage and – wait, you've taken me hostage _twice _in _one day _and you've got the nerve to sit there and… and…!"

The werewolf erupted into howling laughter as she sputtered to a stop, unable to complete her tirade.

"That's right," he wheezed, still laughing. "I've taken you hostage _twice_ now, I've got all the nerve in the world and all things considered, I'll do as I please."

She sank back into the armchair, giving Greyback a look that would have made Professor McGonagall proud. The pounding of her heart had transferred somewhat to her head, so she closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, Greyback was watching her intently. He wasn't sure if he wanted to kill her, or keep her as a pet. There was a certain amount of ironic appeal to a werewolf having a human pet. He found it mildly amusing to think of the girl kept like a housecat – an image of her on his lap flashed through his mind. He shook his head to clear it.

"There's essence of Murtlap in the bathroom," he said abruptly.

"There… what?" Hermione inquired. She felt dull and slow; she didn't understand the sudden change of topic.

"Essence of Murtlap," the werewolf repeated slowly. "For the cuts. On your face."

"Oh! Oh… thank you... er…" she had risen from the chair, but paused awkwardly. _I can't very well call him by his first name, can I? Then again, 'Mister Greyback' doesn't seem fitting either, _she mused. There was nothing else for it but to ask. "How… how should I address you…?"

It took Fenrir several moments before he could process what she meant. He wasn't entirely sure he could remember a time when a witch or wizard had worried about how to address him.

"Hmm," he grumbled, trying to cover his momentary astonishment. "Lord and Master might do nicely, don't you think?"

Apparently she didn't think so, judging by the roll of her eyes as she moved shakily toward the bathroom. Fenrir swirled his whiskey absentmindedly in the tumbler as he waited for Hermione to emerge. _Kill her? Keep her? Or… _he mulled over his options, considering each one. Killing her outright was no fun, and he wanted some fun. Keeping her as a pet was probably – judging by her attitude – a bit more trouble than it was worth, and likely to lead to killing her. Keeping her as a plaything (he thought of the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips) was just as likely to eventually lead to killing her. A lot of things, he reflected, seemed to lead to killing people. The last option, one he wouldn't voice to himself just yet, floated hazily in his mind. He finished his whiskey without tasting it: _That was probably a sin considering it was good whiskey, _he thought as heaved himself to his feet. If the girl was trying to climb out of the bathroom window, she would be in trouble.

He found her asleep on the floor, slumped against the bathtub. The container of Murtlap salve was still clutched loosely in her hand. Sighing and grumbling, the werewolf lifted her and carried her to the couch, laid her out, and went to find a blanket.


	4. Chapter 4

Divide and Devour

Chapter IV

In For a Penny

Light was filtering in, hitting her eyelids and prompting her body to consciousness. Hermione woke suddenly and completely – but refused to open her eyes. As much as she wished she were back in her dorm at Hogwarts, or in her bed at home, or even in that wretched tent with Ron and Harry, she knew where she was. So she kept her eyes shut to delay the inevitable. Her other senses made up for the lack: She heard every subtle creak and crackle of the wooden house settling. She could smell the musky scent of Fenrir Greyback all around her… specifically on top of her. She opened one eye and examined her situation. She was laid out on the couch in the living room, underneath a cream-coloured, faintly scratchy blanket smelling heavily of its werewolf owner. She closed her eye again. She had no idea how she had got to the couch, but she had some trouble believing that the big, bad wolf had tucked her in last night. With that thought, she began mulling over the conduct of her erstwhile captor.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Fenrir Greyback burst through the door of the small house; she squeezed her eyes shut a little tighter.

"Time to wake up, girly," he growled. "It's past noon."

"Nnngh," she responded.

Fenrir quirked an eyebrow at the small form on his couch before catching the corner of the blanket in his clawed hand and ripping it from her.

"Mmmphnnn!" Hermione protested, finally opening her eyes properly. "All _right_."

"Good girl," rumbled the man standing over her. "Go and have a bath."

"Do you prefer to eat only properly cleaned humans?" she snapped waspishly.

"Something like that," he said with a smirk, evidently amused by her irritability.

Hermione did not understand why she wasn't dead yet and resolved to ponder it as she drew up her bath. Fenrir had made it obvious that he thought she would make an excellent chew-toy. (She added some frothy bubbles to the water, and tried not to imagine Fenrir Greyback lounging in this same bathtub, having a relaxing bubble bath.) She'd had ample time to think over the events of the previous day while trying to fall back to sleep on the couch and his lecherous, threatening comments were belied by his… _gentlemanly behavior, _she thought with a snort. _Not that holding me captive is particularly gentlemanly, but I suppose for him not ripping me to bits yet counts. _She shuddered, and stepped into the scalding water. Dying alone in the middle of Merlin-knows-where at the hands of a notorious Death Eater – _well, no, he isn't is he? Not really. Not if You-Know-Who isn't willing to give him the Dark Mark. _(She grabbed a clean washcloth from the side of the tub and went to work on her skin.) _He must get something out of it, but it's not as if You-Know-Who would ever grant werewolves equality. _She began to work shampoo through her tangled hair with gusto, as if cleaning the sweat and dirt from her tresses would take some of the pressure off of her mind.

When she emerged, her freshly-scrubbed skin glowing, she found her clothes cleaned and mended. She dressed herself, remembering something her grandmother had always said – that being washed and dressed could make nearly any situation better. She agreed.

"Er… Fenrir? Mister Greyback?" she called tentatively.

"I thought we had settled on 'Lord and Master'?" he grinned, stealthily appearing from behind her.

"No, we didn't," Hermione shrieked, whirling to face him and trying to bring her voice down to a normal tone. "I think you made that decision unilaterally, _Fenrir. _Now, er, if you're not going to kill me at the moment, I'd er, like to ask you a few questions…?"

She had really hoped that her Gryffindor courage wouldn't fail her, but what had started as a bold statement ended as a meek question. It was hard to be daring when she had to tilt her head up to gaze at a six-foot-tall werewolf whose main components seemed to be muscle and fury. Even so, Hermione kept her resolve. When he didn't respond she took it as assent.

"First of all, where's my wand?"

"I've got it," he said after a moment. "I don't think I'm going to give it to you just yet. I can't have you trying to murder me in my bed, can I?"

"I wouldn't!" she protested immediately. "I wouldn't murder _anyone_."

"You might," he rumbled thoughtfully, "given the right circumstances. Anyone might. I could push you far enough, girly, to make you _want _to."

"I'm not going to argue the point. Where are we?" she queried.

"Abernethy forest," he answered promptly, snapping back to attention. "It's part of the old Caledonian forest that used to cover most of the land here. The Muggles have it 'protected.'"

She gaped at him.

"Which means," he continued, gazing down at her and noting somewhere in the back of his mind that her eyes were a light brown that was nearly amber, "that I don't have to worry about people, buildings, or any other stray bits of _civilisation _most of the time. And conveniently enough, it makes it rather difficult for you to get away."

"And… what… what happened to Harry… and Ron?" she whispered, hoping that their fates were markedly better than hers. _Please let them be alive… I'll find them, or they'll find me… just please don't let them be dead…._

"I haven't the faintest. Sorry, girly," he growled, not sounding remotely apologetic.

"Why are you working for You-Know-Who?" she blurted. She clapped her hand over her mouth and regarded him with wide eyes as anger darkened his face like thunderheads rolling across a clear sky – she hadn't meant to ask precisely that question, in precisely that way. _Hermione Jean Granger you _still _haven't learned when to keep your mouth shut, _she rebuked herself.

His hand shot out and caught her around the neck, sinking the sharp points of his clawed fingernails into her still-sore flesh as he snarled at her. _In for a penny, in for a pound, _she though wildly.

"Please! Fenrir! I just mean… he doesn't… he can't possibly…." His nails dug a little deeper into her neck, silencing her. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.

"Insolent bitch," he growled. "You have no reason and no right to question what I do."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry. I was just curious."

Slowly, he removed his hand from the nape of her neck and twisted his fingers into her hair. He pulled her head back until she was forced to look up at him. Still she tried to avert her eyes.

"Look at me," he growled.

Hermione looked. His piercing grey-blue eyes held her own gaze the way a predator can mesmerize its prey – her heart was beating erratically and her breathing was shallow. Fenrir moved swiftly, holding her in place as he lowered his face to her neck, his hot breath making her shiver. He inhaled the scent of her skin and hair, felt the heat radiate from the blood-filled veins in her neck. Her skin was so delicate… _so easily torn_, he thought, bringing his mouth still closer. _I could kill her right… now…. _She closed her eyes – _this is it, _she thought – as she felt his razor-sharp teeth graze her sensitive skin – and then –

Nothing. He pulled back, causing her to stumble, and regarded her through narrowed eyes. She took a deep gulp of air as her hand moved to cover the part of her neck so recently warmed by his breath. _In for a penny… _she thought again.

"Fenrir," she began, expending a lot of effort in keeping her voice even, "I really _didn't _mean to offend you. I just want to understand why you choose to help a wizard who thinks the greater portion of humanity is nothing but rubbish – both you and me included." Hermione paused and took a deep breath, wiling her legs to stay rooted to the spot. _Running, _she thought, _would be a very bad idea. _She remembered studying wolves once, in primary school, before she had got her Hogwarts letter. They would often try to worry their prey into running, but if they prey stood its ground they lost interest. She hoped the same could be said for werewolves.

"_Think _about it," she continued passionately, "Muggles, so-called 'mudbloods,' Squibs, magical creatures – _none _of us are worth a damn to _him!_"

He watched her through his narrowed eyes, and found that under his sense of utter irritation at her impudence he was once again impressed. She was courageous and the righteous indignation and pure passion she exuded crashed over him in waves. _Us, she says._ _None of _us. _Interesting._

"What do you gain ultimately, please tell me because I just _don't _understand," she finished breathlessly, running a hand through her wayward hair as she gazed up at him.

"Are you hungry?" he growled at her.

"I – what? Er… yes actually, I am, now that you abruptly change the subject," Hermione said.

"Right," he said shortly, still looking irate. "Can you cook?"

"I… well, I know the theory of course," she replied slowly.

"If you want to eat, you'll figure it out," he said, grasping her upper arm with a vice-like hand and propelling her toward the kitchen. "There's meat."

"Don't you… er, you don't cook for yourself, then?" she asked hesitantly. "Do you have a house elf?"

"I eat it raw. You won't find any house elves serving me," he spat.

He was baffled when the small witch beamed at him and set to work without complaint.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: <em>Like many intelligent people, I imagine Hermione is missing a few of the more basic life skills… like cooking. Mind like a dictionary; possibly incapable of preparing boxed macaroni and cheese. You know how it goes. Oh, and I apologize that this is super short and has been delayed. I apparently have a life and am not allowed to lounge in bed writing? I guess?


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note: _Thank you all for all of your reviews! Finding them in my inbox reminds me to keep going with this story. This seems more like Chapter V part I to me than an entire chapter, but I feel like posting it regardless. Also, this chapter has a music reference, one movie reference, and one reference to some works from another fandom... if you spot them...!

Divide and Devour

Chapter V

The Right Hand of the Devil

Fenrir fixed his eyes upon the moon. It was nearly full, providing enough light for the Snatchers to see clearly as they crept forward to the edge of the shivering firelight in the woods. These truants – for they looked school-aged – had not been foolish enough to speak the Dark Lord's name, but the Snatchers had other means of locating the refugees. Fenrir threw out his arm stopping Scabior in his tracks. The smaller man shuddered away from the touch of the werewolf, but otherwise remained still.

"What d'you suppose is happening, then?" said one of the childish voices.

"I dunno," answered another, sounding melancholy. "Nothing good, right?"

"You never know," a third, female voice, quipped. "Maybe the rest of Dumbledore's Army will drive them out!"

"No one's going to drive Snape out," said the melancholy voice. "Not now he's got all the power he wanted. Bloody git."

A low growl issued from Fenrir's throat – _Dumbledore's Army, _he thought, _what a joke! Dumbledore is dead, and more incapable of helping anyone than ever. _He motioned the Snatchers to stand one behind each child, and then dropped his clawed hand.

"INCARCEROUS!" they roared as one.

Thick ropes materialized, binding the children tightly. There was no foolish struggle as there had been on the occasion that Hermione and her companions had been captured. Fenrir stepped into the circle of firelight. He enjoyed working at night – he was immune to that human fear of unknown devils lurking in the darkness. For all intents and purposes, he _was _the devil in the darkness.

"Well, well," he said in his raspy growl of a voice. "Isn't it past your bedtimes?"

Scabior and the others chuckled darkly from beyond the firelight.

"Puh – ple- please!" stammered the girl. "We – we weren't doing anything wrong! Please!"

"Weren't you?" Fenrir growled, moving to stand over the girl – her eyes widened, he could _smell _the fear rolling off of her like a strong, heady perfume as her eyes filled with tears. He bent and reached down with one clawed hand to trace the track of a tear down her face with the edge of his fingernail.

"Why aren't you tucked away safely in your dormitory, girly?" he rasped softly.

"We… we... we're on hols!" she cried. "We're just… er…."

"You're not a good liar," he laughed mirthlessly. "What's your blood status?"

* * *

><p>Hermione was at wits' end. Fenrir had said he would be gone for a few days. At first she had been enormously relieved. She wouldn't have to deal with him during the full of the moon, and she had been getting increasingly anxious about that. Better still, she would be alone and perhaps she would be able to find some way to escape – to get back to Ron and Harry. He had left in the early morning, and before noon she had exhausted all possibility of escape. Without a wand, it was impossible – and she hadn't succeeded in finding her wand. Hermione found herself pacing from living room to kitchen and back. And forth. And back. And forth.<p>

"It's not that I enjoy his company," she assured the small side-table. "But I'm going bats here by myself. Merlin's pants! I mean, I'm talking to furniture. There's got to be something I can _do._"

She had explored every room thoroughly with an eye to her possible escape. Now she went back through them, exploring for the sake of keeping herself occupied. _He hasn't expressly forbidden it_, she thought, _though to be fair it's not as though he said much at all. Not a morning person, that one. _He had been uncommonly gruff that morning, stomping around the house gathering everything he needed into the pockets of his great, black overcoat. She'd heard him mutter something just before he Apparated that sounded as though it contained a dire warning of one type or another, but she couldn't be sure. It didn't seem likely he would appreciate her nosing through his possessions…. _But it's not like I'm going to read his very secret diary or something_, she thought firmly.

Sighing, she wandered into the bedroom. Her discomfort at being in Fenrir Greyback's bedroom was mitigated by one factor: He owned a bookshelf, and it was filled with books. She sat tentatively on the edge of his bed and began browsing the titles:

_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them _by Newt Scamander ("Naturally," she said.); _Winged Wonders of the World: A Guide to Flying Horses of the British Isles and Europe _by Lord Stoddard Withers; _Wanderings With Werewolves _by Gilderoy Lockhart (She laughed out loud, ending in an undignified snort. "Why on earth has he got this?"she wondered.); _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore _by Rita Skeeter (Hermione growled at the book, a sound so imitative of Greyback that she was momentarily shocked at herself.); _Hairy Snout, Human Heart _by An Anonymous Werewolf ("I wonder if he reads everything to do with werewolves, then," she mused. "It would make sense."); _The Dark Side of the Moon: A History of Lycanthropy _by Valerius Nott… she pulled the last title from the shelf.

"In light of the circumstances, I think we'll see what Valerius has to say about werewolves," she mused to herself, taking the book with her to the chair beside the fireplace.

Thankfully it was a thick tome; it would take a few days at least if she took breaks for meals and sleep. Hermione had not yet finished with it by the time Fenrir returned, exploding through the door with all of the force of a breaking storm. He strode past her, shedding his coat as he headed for the bathroom. A hot bath was precisely what his aching muscles were calling for –– he stopped. Backtracking, he moved to stand in front of Hermione, who had been watching his progress over the top of a black leather-bound book.

"You've been in my bedroom," he commented scratchily, "And been through my books. And of all the things you could have picked to read, you chose _that?_"

"What's wrong with it?" Hermione asked defensively.

"It's bloody boring," Fenrir grumbled. "Excruciatingly so, in fact. I suffered through every page."

"You've read the whole thing?" she questioned.

"I _can _read," he snarled, treating her to a very dark look.

She blushed brightly as she realized how she had sounded.

"I'm sorry, that's not really what I meant," she said quietly. "It's just… it _is _boring. I wouldn't think… I mean… oh, never mind."

"You have to know what the enemy is saying about you," he said flatly, unexpectedly reminding her of her reasons for taking out a subscription to the _Daily Prophet _a few years back.

"I understand," she commented matter-of-factly.

"Do you, girly?" he asked, his voice suddenly harsh. "You understand what it's like to be hated for something you can't help? To be hunted for it?"

"I _do _know what it's like to be hated for something I can't help, actually," she retorted, marking her page and snapping the book shut, "_and _to be hunted for it. You hunted us down, Ron and Harry and I, you caught us, and you called me a 'Mudblood,' remember? I know a little bit about this, Fenrir Greyback."

Fenrir did not relax his expression – he gave no indication that he was taken aback by her outburst. _Full of surprises, aren't you, girly?_

"And since you know what it's like, why would you do it to other people? That's what I don't understand," she queried, fixing him with a glare over the top of the book, which she was still holding like a shield.

"I'd rather be the right hand of the devil than in his path," he grunted before continuing to the bathroom and slamming the door shut so forcefully that Hermione thought she saw splinters fly from the frame.

"Fenrir, I don't think tha -" she began before he interrupted.

"Asylum," she heard him growl. "Sanctuary. Merlin preserve me from argumentative women!"

"Fine! But that was a pathetic answer, and you'll have to come out of there some time," she commented, feeling somewhat emboldened. "I'll wait."

Fenrir declined response in favor of drawing a bath and sinking gratefully into the steaming water. He wasn't always one for introspection, but if he was going to examine his life he certainly preferred that he be the one to initiate the scrutiny – not some school-aged witch with a hyperactive conscience. _This isn't fair, _he groused to himself as he worked soap over his tensely knotted muscles. Outside of the bathroom Hermione heard a loud splash as Fenrir dunked his head under the water. Surfacing, he shook himself like a dog before working a bit of shampoo through his grizzled locks. Fair had nothing to do with it, and he knew it. Fair had had nothing to do with him being bitten before he could start Hogwarts, had nothing to do with his family's reaction, had nothing to do with anything.

A vision of his father flickered in his memory. Filthy, he had said. An animal. No son of mine. _That's all right, _Fenrir thought savagely. _You were no father anyway. Damn you to whatever Hell there is._ It occurred to him, though, that his pure blood father would have been more welcome than he in the ranks of the Dark Lord's supporters. _Damn it, _he raged, _I wanted to _relax _tonight! _There was another audible splash as he went under again, half-hoping he could wash the thoughts out of his mind.

"Don't drown yourself," Hermione commented at the door as she walked to the kitchen. "I still want an answer."


	6. Chapter 6

_Amended Author's Note: _I'm back, I have a new name... and I am so thrilled to see the reviews that have come in on this! Thank you. I am a terrible person, I know. I completely abandoned this. Mainly this is because my world imploded, or exploded, it's hard to say which and it's a long story that doesn't bear telling here… and anyway, I hope everyone can forgive the fact that this fic was so neglected! This is just a brief update because I am entirely out of practice, and I can't promise when more will be up, but I'm going to get back to writing this in my spare time. Real life is so intrusive...

Divide and Devour

Chapter VI

Like a Devil's Sick of Sin

When Fenrir emerged, he was cleaner if not any more content. His muscles didn't feel quite as knotted as they had before. Hermione, he noted, had retired to the chair and recommenced reading. When she saw him she snapped the book shut for the second time that night and opened her mouth, about to speak.

"_Witch,_" Fenrir growled warningly. "Don't push me."

Hermione was not, however, disposed to push their previous conversation any further at the moment. She was in fact hoping fervently that what she had just been thinking was not showing on her face: Fenrir had come into view wearing nothing but a rough towel wrapped about his hips. Little droplets of water were winding their way from his still-wet hair down the chiseled planes of his torso and beading on the fine, dark hair between his navel and... _Oh, Merlin's beard Hermione Jean Granger do _not _look any lower! _she thought. She licked her lips nervously and ran her hand quickly over her hair. _I hope I'm not blushing…._

"You're ill, aren't you," he muttered as he moved toward his bedroom. "Otherwise you'd be haranguing me."

He disappeared into the shadowy recess of the room and shut the door with great force. Hermione took a deep, shaky breath – and launched herself from the chair to fetch Fenrir's whiskey and two rocks glasses. She had angered him, but if she was lucky she could distract and placate him. _Or the whiskey can, _she thought. _Either way, so long as he doesn't use me as a chew-toy._

Fenrir dried himself perfunctorily and chose clothing without really seeing any of it. He had felt a little calmer when he had finished his bath, but the thoughts that plagued him were like gnats clouding around him, obscuring his vision just enough to be annoying. Shaking his head violently, he turned and stalked back to the small living room – he fully intended to teach Hermione some respect. But the whiskey decanter caught his eye, as did – he had to admit it to himself – the witch perched expectantly on the edge of the chair. He stopped short of entering the room, drinking in the sight of a pretty witch waiting for him with whiskey. _Easy on the eyes, that,_ he reflected. He crossed the threshold with a whooshing sigh, and took the proffered glass of whiskey from Hermione.

"Fenrir," she began – but he cut her off with a snarl, his lip curling back to reveal his unnaturally sharpened teeth. She subsided and sipped a little whiskey from her own glass, content to watch him for a little while. He leaned back and closed his eyes, glass gripped loosely in his right hand. Presently he drained it and promptly refilled it. Hermione watched the muscles in his arm as he moved, letting her eyes drift up and over the contours of his face, down to his chest which was now unfortunately covered – _okay, stop looking, Hermione, _she thought swiftly as a blush rose in her cheeks. She watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed.

"Fenrir," she tried again. He opened one eye and quirked an eyebrow at her as he moved to pour himself more whiskey.

"What," he snapped.

"Well," she paused for thought. She felt increasingly silly in his presence, and sipped her whiskey as she pondered what she wanted to say. _Hermione Granger, speechless! No one will ever believe this, if I get the chance to tell them. _

"Ye-es?" Fenrir queried impatiently. "Were you going to badger me about something?"

"I am not _badgering _you," she huffed. "I was only going to say that… well, not everyone hates you _simply _for being a werewolf, you know."

He snorted, but wasn't certain whether he was more amused or irritated by her naïveté.

"It's true," she persisted. "_I _don't hate you for being a werewolf."

"Oh? What do _you_ hate me for, then?"

"I… I don't hate you," she said, sounding faintly perplexed. "Which is not to say I think you're a lovely person, because clearly _that_ wouldn't be true," she quickly amended.

"Naturally," he commented drily, draining his glass. He regarded her through narrowed eyes as he reached toward the decanter. He felt as perplexed as she had sounded, and shook his head quickly as if ridding himself of an irritating fly.

"But there are plenty of people who would look past your lycanthropy," she said. "Think of Dumbledore, for example! He helped Remus Lupin immensely."

"And where did that get Lupin? I bit him, did you know that? He had such potential. Now look at him: A miserable outcaste, always trying to find a place in a society that doesn't want him. Pathetic."

"I did know," she said quietly. "But he's _not _pathetic at all. He's one of the bravest people I know!"

"You don't know that many people," Fenrir stated blandly, ticking his nails against the glass he was still holding and examining its contents, noting once again that Hermione's eyes were so light that they nearly matched the amber hue of his favourite drink. He glanced over as he heard her sigh.

"I know plenty of people, Fenrir, and all of them are brave in their own way," she said levelly.

"It's nice to know you keep such courageous company," he sneered. "Evidently it's rubbed off on you to the point of foolishness. Dumbledore didn't help Lupin by letting him go to Hogwarts. He'd have been better off with his own kind."

"I take it you didn't go to Hogwarts," Hermione quipped with considerable bravado. She had the feeling that she might be stepping out onto thin ice with her captor. The look he gave her indicated that she was right, but the fury that had darkened his face passed and he laughed, showing all of his murderously-pointed teeth as he did so.

"No," he said roughly. "I didn't. And I'm the better for it, just as Lupin would have been."

"How did you learn magic, then, if you didn't go to school?" Hermione asked. She sounded genuinely interested; Fenrir regarded her curiously before he decided to answer.

"I had a tutor when I was younger," he said slowly. "It used to be common – maybe it still is – for pure-blood families to have their children tutored in the basics of magic before beginning school. And later when I… left home I learned more magic from older werewolves."

"Why did you leave home?"

"Why do you think," he said acerbically. "I thought you were smart, Hermione."

She flushed and reached out to splash a little whiskey into her empty glass. Fenrir was quicker, and he poured her a considerable amount more than she wanted to drink.

"Thank you," she said softly. "But I don't understand why you would have to leave your home…."

"I thought you were smart," he repeated.

Hermione couldn't tell whether he intended to say more; he was swirling whiskey in his glass and staring into it, eyes glazed. Then he shook himself, as though waking from a dream, and drained the glass while simultaneously reaching for more whiskey. _I hope he can hold his liquor, _Hermione thought, _because there is no way I'm helping him stumble to bed later if he's drunk! _She wondered if the whiskey would tempt him to talk at all. She was surprised at how easy it was to banter with him, to question him, and how easy it was to forget the danger of doing so. _To the point of foolishness, indeed_, she reflected. Wanting to know everything had always been one of her weaknesses, if one could call it a weakness. She had always thought it was a sort of strength, but maybe it blinded her to other things… her thoughts were swirling like the whiskey in Fenrir's glass. Ron and Harry's faces swam into view, then melted away.

"Before I left to… to go with Harry and Ron," she began without looking at Fenrir, "I… obviously my parents would have been in danger, so… I modified their memories. They… they don't know that they have a daughter, anymore. They don't even know I exist… or that I've ever existed."

She sniffled quietly, not sure why she had offered this small story. She glanced up at him. His eyes were closed, but his expression was pained. He didn't speak, and far from being a comfortable silence the atmosphere of the room began to feel oppressive to Hermione. Feeling increasingly discomfited, she chose not to let it continue.

"Now, of course, I don't even know if Ron and Harry are… even alive," she said, looking down again and trying to stem the tears that were suddenly threatening to spill over. "I'm alone," she whispered to herself.

Fenrir made a derisive noise, and opened his eyes a fraction to regard the tearful witch.

"Life is rough, girly," he growled. He sounded almost _sad_ when he said it. Hermione hastily wiped at her eyes and looked up at the man sitting across the room, just in time to see him rise and leave.

"Go to sleep," came the muffled dismissal through the bedroom door.


End file.
